


Sunday Afternoon

by mrasaki



Category: Star Trek RPF, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Pine had some weird quirks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the battle post for Ship Wars over at [](http://community.livejournal.com/st_respect/profile)[**st_respect**](http://community.livejournal.com/st_respect/), [HERE](http://community.livejournal.com/st_respect/26210.html?thread=3215970#t3215970). BUT WAIT. THERE IS A STORY BEHIND THIS MADNESS. [](http://zephtastic.livejournal.com/profile)[**zephtastic**](http://zephtastic.livejournal.com/) keeps posting hot-like-burning pics of CP and even though I'm the captain of Team Spock/McCoy, I CAN'T RESIST. And so I throw myself back into the K/Mc fray again and again. It's a conspiracy.

This fic is based on THIS image:  


****

Chris Pine had some weird quirks.

Well, okay. Karl had his own quirks, yes, like how his food couldn't touch or the first thing he did in the mornings was pick his belly button, but Chris had some particularly distracting ones.

And they just got worse when he was stoned.

One: He liked to read the New York Times. How that worked when _Karl's_ usual pasttime when he'd taken a few hits was staring out at the traffic below and wondering if that tree was supposed to be moving or not, he couldn't figure out even when sober. Figured the kid was a nerd. UC Berkeley, English major. Actor. Reading the New York Times when stoned. Fuck, that was hot.

Two: Chris liked to suck on his upper lip. At some point during rehearsals Karl had realized this was a sign of concentration, and possibly related to Point One. In grade school Chris had probably been the kid with the chapped, swollen lip that everyone edged away from like he had a disease. That Karl had edged away from. Now?

"Quit staring at me, asshole," Chris said, not looking up from the paper.

"I can't," Karl said back. "Your nipples are staring me in the face." Chris looked at him then, then down, and Karl grinned at him, mellow and coasting on the dry Southern California air.

Three: Chris hated wearing shirts. Considering his fashion sense unless his agent got ahold of him, Karl thought that was rather a good thing. "I'm getting a tan," Chris said, which was a total lie, because Chris Pine was never _ever_ going to tan, not even after a lifetime of living in California. So Karl snorted into his Coke just a bit too derisively, thinking things like boiled lobster and skin cancer, and Chris folded up his newspaper and whacked him hard across the forehead. Karl snatched the newspaper and rolled it up in readiness for a righteous ass-whupping, when Chris pushed his bare foot up onto the wicker chair, into Karl's crotch.

Four: Chris knew exactly how to distract Karl. Had made days on set entertaining, but also aggravating as all fuck. It was hard to channel gruff and sarcastic when Chris was just off-screen, making obscene faces at him.

Chris's skin tasted faintly of sunscreen and his fingers were smudged with newsprint and ash, pushing up Karl's shirt. "Hey, wait," he said into Karl's mouth, enthusiastic tongue now working on _Karl's_ lip and sloppily up his cheek. "The paps will see."

"You started this," Karl pointed out, and pulled him off the chair onto his back behind the balcony wall. The deck was filthy, because Chris never, ever cleaned, and dry leaves and Tostito bags crunched underneath them, but Karl couldn't give less of a fuck as he dove back into those moist lips and pushed down those awful madras shorts with his other hand.

Chris tasted of saliva, and a little of smoke, as Karl took him in hand and stroked hard in the rhythm he knew Chris liked. Chris swore a little and thrashed, hampered by his shorts bound around his thighs. A twig was stuck in his hair, and sweat sheened over the bridge of his nose.

"I'm gettin' hungry. What do you want for lunch?" Karl said conversationally as his hand worked away and Chris's tongue flicked out and lapped at his upper lip again. "I'm feeling Roscoe's. Maybe Pink's."

"Fuck, Karl," Chris whined, his hands over his head and clutching blindly at the chair legs. "_Priorities_."

"Chicken and waffles, collard greens, sweet tea—" Karl continued thoughtfully, and Chris moaned something about killing the mood, belied by the spastic jerks of his hips and the hot fluid that jetted over Karl's hand.

Karl rubbed his dirtied hand over Chris's heaving stomach in slow circles as Chris sprawled bonelessly, open-mouthed and panting. "You need to stop talking about food with that Kiwi accent when we're doing it," Chris complained after a while. "Fucks me up like crazy."

"That's why I do it." Karl pulled him to his feet and shoved him through the open patio door, with an open-handed slap across the ass to help him on his way. "Bedroom, shower, then food. In that order. _Now_."


End file.
